Respite
by arrenallwise
Summary: It's Christmas Eve and the boys are injured in an accident. They wake up to find themselves in unfamiliar, but not altogether unpleasant surroundings.


Respite~

by Arrenall

December 24th, 2006-

What woke him, he couldn't say, nor could he remember going to sleep. He lay on his stomach, one hand uncomfortably trapped beneath him. He groaned as he lifted himself painfully to pull his numb arm from under his chest, and heaved himself with his other arm onto his side. Instinct kicked in when he stopped himself from rolling over entirely. More often than not, that will result in a sudden drop to some smelly, sticky motel room carpet and an unwanted view beneath the bed.

He wiped a hand over his eyes, the tingle signaling the return of circulation, and tried to focus on his surroundings.

It was like no motel room he had ever seen. "Richly appointed" was a phrase that might do; if it weren't so inadequate. The walls were covered in a sea-foam green striped paper that appeared more cloth than paper- silk to be exact. It was delicately peppered with pink and red tea roses and wispy vines.

The bed he lay in was of a similar tone but much different in color. It was large. Sam sat up and located his feet. Very large. He was six foot five and the end of the bed extended out another foot and a half beyond him. It was deep, luxurious and almost as wide as it was long. Overhead hung a draped canopy supported by delicate spires of twisted wood, golden and polished to a rich luster. From the canopy hung heavy drapery of gold and green that were tied back to the bed posts. The bedding, while mostly a pale golden beige, was topped by a gold and green striped duvet, as light as air yet warm and substantial enough for the coldest night.

Sam pulled back the duvet to find himself dressed in blue silk pajamas. They were the color of a cloudless Spring sky, and light enough to where he felt as if he wore nothing at all. He could tell his feet were bare and he instinctively grabbed his own wrist only to discover his watch was missing. "Damn," he muttered. It had been a birthday gift from Jessica and he treasured it. Keeping it safe through the years sometimes proved a challenge, but he had never let it get away from him for very long. Once he even made Dean backtrack one hundred and fifty miles to get it when he knew he had left it in a motel room bathroom. Dean annoyingly reminded him of it every day for a month before he finally tired of the game.

A quick desperate glance around; under the covers, on the floor, before he found his watch lying on the bedside table. He swung his legs around and sat on the side of the bed, surprised to find that his feet did not touch the floor. He took the watch and glanced at the dial before strapping it on his wrist. He stopped when he noticed that the second hand was not moving. In fact, the watch was entirely still; frozen at 12:38. He shook it and tapped it in his palm several times, but it did not respond. 12:38. Wasn't that about the time he and Dean…Dean!

Sam scanned the room for Dean. He got out of the bed and circled the room, calling his brother's name. There were two doors, one of which was opened half way. He went to the other, only to find it was a bathroom. The fixtures, tub, toilet and sink were from another era. Sam was reminded of the old houses Jessica loved to tour on weekends. She dragged him to every open house and garden tour featured in the Creative Loafing newspaper that was free to the students at school. He crossed over to the open door and peered into the neighboring room.

Sam pushed the heavy door completely open and cautiously peered into the next room. This room, if possible, was even more impressive than the room in which he had awakened.

The deep carpet continued into the next room, but the similarity ended at the threshold. For one thing, it was twice as large. Although the same high ceiling gave the room grandeur, the actual square footage appeared to be doubled. The carpeting, although equally as deep and plush, was now a rich red.

On the left was an alcove, as big as any single hotel room they had ever stayed in, with deep plush covered benches lining the circular wall, and providing seating at the outsized windows hung with draperies from floor to massive ceiling. The drapes were pulled to the sides of each window, but the glass reflected back the room, the darkness outside turning the windows into dark mirrors.

Sam slid his bare feel along the deep carpet, slipped through the door, and quietly pulled it to. To his right was a massive stone fireplace, right out of a medieval castle and hung on each side with tapestries of hunters, deer, men and women on horseback, and country houses and fields. The rich tones picked up the firelight and served to make the figures almost come to life. A massive desk occupied a corner of the room, flanked by book cases and leather chairs. There was no sign of modern conveniences anywhere. No phone, no desk lamp, no fax.

Sam stood and turned in place, noting the sconces on the walls; all gas lights. The room was bathed in flickering yellow light from the walls, and fireplace. Not an electric light to be seen anywhere. Where the room he had left was elegant, light and feminine, this one was heavy, dark and definitely masculine.

The opposite side of the room was dominated by a massive canopied bed, large enough to comfortably sleep four, and high enough to require most people to climb in, rather than fall in. The head and foot boards were deeply carved mahogany with scenes of clipper ships sailing on deeply cut wooden waves. The draperies hanging from the canopy were deep purple and gold brocade with large and heavy gold twisted ropes securing them to the ship-sized masts that held the canopy high above.

Sam's breath caught in his throat when he realized belatedly that the gargantuan bed was occupied. Not needing to tread lightly, as the deep pile carpeting would muffle an army marching through, he quickly shuffled to the bed, crossing the room in ten of his long strides. He counted.

Deep in the over abundance of bedding laid Dean, looking child-like in the giant bed. Dean was close to the far edge of the bed, covered in billowing purple sheets and comforter, head and shoulders resting on a boat-load of downy soft pillows, his left arm casted and lying elevated on more pillows at his side.

"Dean!" he whispered loudly as he sat on the bed. Dean's face was turned away, but Sam could see most of his right side. In the yellowish firelight, Dean looked peaceful, his long lashes lying quietly on his flushed cheeks. His lips were parted, and Sam heard the familiar soft snore typical of Dean in repose. He was dressed in pajamas that matched the deep burgundy of the carpeting, jarring to Sam who was used to seeing his brother in tee shirts.

Dean hadn't worn pajamas since he was eight and Dad made him throw out his Star Wars pajamas because they were so worn, and Dean had worn the shirt to school one day. The Deathstar was so threadbare that you could see Dean's ribs, and the Wookie's arm looked amputated where a seam had given way.

Sam grinned. He would pay money to see Dean's face when he woke up and found himself in burgundy silk pajamas. Sam sat in the sea of bed linens, and laid the back of his hand against Dean's cheek. It was warm, not hot, and dry. "Dean?" he whispered again.

"Your brother is quite comfortable, I assure you young man."

Sam startled and turned toward the voice behind him. She was tall, for a woman, slender, and dressed richly in dove gray silk, her dress in the style of the 1940s, or so Sam thought, having just watched Sunset Blvd two nights before. She was not young, but her age was difficult to pinpoint. She could have been anywhere from forty-five, to seventy-five. Her face was unlined, but had a countenance matured through years of experience. She wore little make up, but what she did have on was skillfully applied so as to give the impression of there being none at all. Her hair was up; a long braid wrapped several times around her head giving the impression of a crown.

Sam lowered himself from the high bed, his bare feet sinking once again into the luxurious carpet. "Yes, ma'am, uh...thank you for..."

"Nonsense!" she said as she tossed a dismissive hand, "anyone would have done the same." She glided to the other side of the bed and regarded Dean, quickly examining his face, and then his hand where it lay loosely on the pillow. "The cast can come off in six weeks or so. We need to watch his fingers the first few days; to be sure they don't swell awfully." Her accent, though American was of a different age and definitely eastern. New England he thought.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember how we got here," Sam's gesture encompassing the room, the house, the region, "or even where _here_ is."

"Of course you don't. You hit your head and I'm quite sure you have a concussion. Your brother does as well. He seems to have taken the brunt of the impact."

"Impact?" Sam's eyes darted back to Dean.

"You really don't remember, do you dear," she said as she strode to an overstuffed chair, gesturing for Sam to follow, expecting that he would with an air of assurance that she was obviously accustomed to. "Sit down before you fall down and I'll try to explain."

Without a sound and seemingly un-summoned a man entered the room, dressed formally in a black waistcoat and white gloves, he carried a silver tray laden with a coffee service and small sandwiches without crusts.

He appeared ancient, his face deeply lined, his gloved hands trembling, but his back was straight, not bent, even when he poured. He bent from the waist, his back ramrod straight. He had a lot of hair, all snowy white and the wild and untamed eyebrows characteristic of men of a certain age.

"Thank you, Max. Please, Sam, have a bite and some coffee. I'm sure you'll feel better." The man stood by, but left soundlessly after a small, almost unnoticed gesture from the lady of the house.

"My name is Abigail Godwin and this is my home. You may call me Abigail." She paused for a moment, thinking. Then she smiled and raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows, "In fact, I insist! You and your brother were passing on the road below when you unfortunately left the road and ran off into a gully."

Sam sat forward in his seat, "When did this happen?"

"Oh, let's see...oh, I don't know," she said as she waved dismissively. "I'm afraid it was very dark and raining heavily," she said, stirring her coffee with a delicate silver spoon.

"And the car? Where is the car?"

"I should imagine it's still in the creek, my boy! Max and I were more concerned about getting you and your brother inside and dry."

Sam relaxed back in the chair. "Yes ma'am, I understand. I really appreciate all you did." He sighed, adding, "That car means a lot to my brother."

"Yes," she said, looking skeptically at Sam. "Well, we had my personal physician come to examine you both. He set your brother's arm and gave him something for pain, and you something to help you sleep. He'll be back quite soon I should think." She took a long sip of her coffee.

Sam looked at Abigail Godwin appraisingly. Was she telling the truth? His experience, hell, his whole life has taught him caution. "Um, ma'am, how did you know Dean was my brother?"

"Why you told me of course!"

"I told y…?"

"Yes, of course. Oh you were a bit groggy, but you were very concerned that your brother was alright. Wanted to climb right out of bed and find him!" Abigail set her china cup down and rose to her feel, "Well, no matter! You are fine now. Your brother will wake up soon. I'm sure he'll be quite sore, but I have no doubt he will be fit as a fiddle in no time."

"Uh, ma'am?" Sam rose to his feet and followed Abigail almost to the door. "What day is it?" He pushed his sleeve up to look at his watch, but found nothing but a bare arm. He could swear he had put his watch back on, "And the time? What time is it?"

"Time? Dear boy, time has no meaning here," she said as if talking to a child. "Now never you mind about that." She turned and swept out of the room. "Jones will bring you some dinner later. Try to get some rest, dear."

Sam stood, jaw dropped. Finally he sighed and turned back to the bed, and Dean. He climbed aboard and sat watching Dean breathe; deep, regular, almost hypnotic. Sam shook his head. He was getting foggy, ready to lie down and go back to sleep again. The warmth of the room, the dancing light from the fire, all served to make avoiding sleep all but impossible. Sam drew his legs up and curled up on the bed. He borrowed a pillow from among the many around Dean, and his head sunk deeply into its scented depths moments before he fell asleep.

Dean was warm. Hell, he was hot; suffocating and hot! Without opening his eyes, not wanting to face the world just yet, he pushed the covers down his chest, and past his waist. His hands were thick, stiff and clumsy, but he felt the unfamiliar fabric beneath his fingers, soft, silky and barely there. His right arm was more than just stiff, it was encased in something and hurt like a sonuva…especially when he tried to straighten it.

He opened one eye, lifted his head and peered down his length, looking for the…"what the HELL!" He threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, immediately regretting it. His head swam, his stomach lurched, and he had to bend over, eyes clinched closed, head in hands to avoid throwing up.

The cast on his right arm was odd… new, but not entirely surprising or alarming. The dark red…burgundy…silk pajamas, though, _that_ was alarming. He felt as if he were dressed in mist; light, insubstantial and, oh God, _burgundy!_

"Sam!" Dean rasped, raising his head to look around as best he could without shaking his brain too much. "Sam!"

"Here," the voice came from behind. "Shut up, I'm trying to sleep."

Dean tried to turn his head, failed and instead pulled his legs back up on the bed and laid down so he could see the other side of the bed. He rolled carefully to his right side, the cast inconveniently bent at the elbow preventing him from maneuvering well. The movement caused his vision to blur and the room for to swim for a moment.

Sam was curled up on his side, his back to Dean. He could see the rise and fall of his shoulder as he breathed deep and easy. The bed was so large that even though they shared it, Dean could not reach out and touch Sam.

"Sammy, were are we? What the hell happened?"

Sam's voice was muffled and he made no effort to turn over. "Later, Dean, go back to sleep. Everything's fine."

Dean sighed and lay back, sinking into the deep pillows. Suddenly feeling exposed and mildly chilly, he reached down for the duvet and pulled it back up to his chest.

He turned back to Sam noticing for the first time that he was wearing light blue silk pajamas. "Uh, Sam."

"Mmfhmm"

"What are you wearing?"

"Same thing you are, now shut up."

Finally focusing a little better, Dean scanned the room. It was huge. There was a fireplace to his left and heavy draperies and furniture all around. For such a large room, it was surprisingly warm, but not uncomfortably so anymore.

He suddenly remembered his clothes, his gun…the knife. He rose up as best he could in the soft bed, and looked around for his pants, shirt and jacket. Not seeing them, he lowered himself back to the pillows. "Shit."

As much as he knew he should be alarmed, get to his feet and find his weapons, whoever, or whatever brought them here, he could not seem to muster the strength or the desire to do so. Shut up and go back to sleep seemed like a much better idea.

He felt Sam move to get under the covers and then settle again. His last thought before dropping off, 'Why can't he find his own bed?'

"They are quite alright, m'lady. No permanent damage I should think," he said in his clipped cadence. "Quite convenient they should be here together, eh what?" he chortled. "Quite efficient." He popped his bowler on his head, snapped his bag closed and strode to the door, held open by the ever-present Max. "I shall see you in a fortnight, ma'am, but if you require my presence, of course I will attend immee-jutly." He bowed and departed.

Abigail stood, ramrod straight at the foot of the massive bed, overlooking her charges with affection and concern. "Castiel darling, are you quite certain that they have to go back? It's so lovely having someone here to take care of again, and Max has been so lonely. And when they're feeling better, perhaps they …"

"No, Abigail, you cannot keep them," Castiel broke in.

Her face fell and her mouth drew into a tiny pout, her perfect eyebrows drew together. "Castiel, how _can_ you be so cruel," she wrapped her arm around his and lead him away to the sitting area, "sending me these lovely boys to look after and then taking them away." Her wry smile and twinkling eyes caught Castiel off-guard and he could not resist a twitch of a grin in return.

"I'm not taking them away, Abilgail," he sank into the plush chair, resisting the urge to sigh, "not yet anyway. They need a rest and I thought this would be the perfect place. Certainly better than a hospital, which is where they would have landed if I had not…"

"Yes, yes, darling, but why didn't you just employ you're usual…" she reached out with two fingers toward his forehead.

"They need time, Abigail, and they need your special brand of recovery. They need to get back to what it means to be human; to enjoy the finer things, and not be in constant danger, or constantly having to look behind them." He shifted forward in the chair and reached across to cover her hand with his. "They need you, Abigail; even if it's just for a little while."

"You mean they need a mother," she said ruefully.

"Okay, if you insist. And they need Christmas. A _real_ Christmas. Can you do that for them, Abigail?"

"How long have you been coming to my house, Castiel?"

"Millenia."

"Have you ever known me to turn away anyone in need?"

"Of course not."

"Then leave this to me, my dear," she stood and clasped her hands in front of her. "You had best leave before they wake up and see you. They have not met you yet, have they." This was a statement rather than a question.

Castiel rose and looked down at his shoes sheepishly. "No, not yet."

"When?" she asked with an air of a schoolmarm wanting to know when an assignment will be turned in.

"In two years."

"Well, Max and I have some work to do. You should be off. Come back in two months."

"Two weeks."

"Six weeks."

"Three weeks. The World needs them back. In fact, the World will not survive without them."

"Two months and that's final, Castiel. They need time, and I need time," she turned away and glided effortlessly to the door, "…and I need them," she said under her breath.

"I heard that," he called after her.

"I meant for you to," she said, already down the hall. "Max! Where are you? I need you. We have much to do, darling. Much to do..."

Merry Christmas, everyone

2015


End file.
